


The Riddle

by Seonaid



Category: Marco Polo (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-18 23:55:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3588687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seonaid/pseuds/Seonaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Husband, the Latin is here to see you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Riddle

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this little thing this afternoon after reading a riddle in Vulgar Latin that got me thinking. Mistakes are all mine.

Marco stood in front of the Prince's _ger_ and watched as people of the Khan's court came and went. It was three days since the battle at Xiangyang where the walls fell and Kublai Khan became the ruler of South China.  Marco had dislocated his shoulder in the combat with Jia Sidao, his shoulder and arm still ached, held in a sling and carried gingerly. He stood awkwardly, not wishing to intrude, but not wanting to leave, caught up amongst the hurried pace of the servants running to and fro, and the Khan's men going about their duties.

He had not seen the Prince since he had been carried off the battlefield, stopped for a moment only to clasp arms with Marco, to tell him, drolly, that it was auspicious that he had not killed Marco on the battle field and wish him _peace to you brother._

Marco's heart had lifted at these words. The long running jealousy and hatred that the Prince had harboured for Marco seemed to have vanished with the blood shed and battle fatigue that they all had borne. The Prince's face had been streaked with sweat, dirt and blood and pinched in pain, his battle braids tangled and matted against the roll of sheepskin beneath his head to cushion the bumps of the cart his men pulled. Marco had feared the Prince's life was leaving his body. The Prince had been wounded with the new weapon, a hand cannon, his chest burned with red hot pebbles and flaring black powder. He had glimpsed the terrible injury that must have caused unimaginable pain, as he was trapped beneath the dead body of another soldier. As Marco had galloped up, Byamba, one of the Prince's brothers had saved him from a final blow by an enemy soldier, Marco shouted for the shields around the Prince, and together he and Byamba had leaped ahead through the fallen gates toward Jia Sidao.

Now Marco stood, indecision a knot in his stomach, as he yearned to see the Prince again and know that he was healing, even if that meant a return of the tight lipped disapproval he had always directed toward Marco.

Byamba emerged from Prince Jingim's tent. “Go on into see him, he ask after you,” Byamba smiled and headed off in the other direction. Marco stood for another moment, collecting his thoughts and rearranging his face to a more neutral expression. Then, with a deep breath, he walked to the _ger_ , stepped over the sill and entered without announcing his presence as was the custom. The Prince was laying on a pallet between two lit braziers. His three wives were there, one beside him, the other two tending to tasks in the temporary dwelling. Sorga, his number one wife gestured for Marco to approach the prone form of Jingim. She stroked Jingim's brow to rouse him, and spoke softly, “Husband, the Latin is here to see you.”

Jingim opened his eyes and smiled tightly, pain written all over his face. “Polo, you finally have come to see if I live. I was beginning to wonder if you lived,” he coughed briefly, as Sorga reached for a cup of water. “I'm fine, wife, don't hover. Come closer, Polo, and tell me news of my father.”

Marco shuffled closer to the bed and sat on a small stool, gently resting his arm on his knee. “Surely Byamba and the others have told you of the Khan and his victory,” Marco said quietly.

“Yes, but none have the colourful way with words that you do, Latin,” Jingim held Marco's eyes.

“The Khan is well, he takes his seat on the throne of South China, as was destined for him to do so. Ghengis is looking down upon his grandson, as well as great-grandson, with pride, no doubt.” Marco offered tentatively. It occurred to him, with a tiny flare of anger, that the Khan must not have visited Jingim yet.

“Yes- proud. To gain favour of one's ancestors seems to be the only worthy goal in this family.” Jingim's voice had a touch of bitterness to it. “But, tell me of you. You are injured?” Jingim deftly changed the subject.

“It is nothing, Prince. My shoulder was temporarily disconnected by Sidao. I was rapidly repaired by Hundred Eyes.” Marco assured him with raised eyebrows and a crooked smile. Jingim winced at the thought, then gasp as his own injuries twinged. The moment of silence lengthened as Sorga wiped Jingim's brow with a dampened cloth. Marco wondered if he should leave, just as Jingim spoke again, “Tell me Polo. What have you been doing? You stay here in Xiangyang instead of returning to the comfort of Cambulac. Why do you stay?”

“Because, Prince, everyone I care about is here. I... I have no desire for comfort when my friends lay wounded.” Marco stopped himself, he thought that perhaps he had over stepped his bounds, by insinuating that the Prince was a friend.

Jingim gazed intently at Marco's face, searching for something, Marco knew not what. “Tell me...” Jingim said, “Tell me something in Venetian. Tell me what you do.”

Marco smiled and thought for a moment, then said, “I will tell you a riddle.

    
    _"Se pareba boves_
    _alba pratalia araba_
    _albo versorio teneba_
    _negro semen seminaba"_
    

“And what do your pretty words mean, Latin?” Jingim said softly. 

Marco said, “I will tell you the words meanings and you must tell me what it is I am doing. Yes?” 

Jingim tipped his chin down slightly and listened with interest. 

“I said: 

    _In front of him led oxen_
    _White fields plowed_
    _A white plow held_
    _A black seed sowed_
    

What is it I am doing? No, I am not a farmer,” he smiled and waited for Jingim's response. 

Jingim thought for a minute, then said, “It is said that thoughts are like seeds being sowed.” Jingim thought for a while longer. “Yes, that is it. You write thoughts in your journals. You tell of lands, deeds, beauty, death. The two oxen are your fingers which draw a white feather across the white page, leaving black ink marks.” Jingim smiled triumphantly, then winced again as a spasm of pain struck him. 

Marco looked at the Prince in awe. That he had grasp the riddle so quickly, while in obvious pain, and that he thought Marco's words were “pretty”- he was taken aback. The Prince's sharp mind and intelligence were not always on display. Indeed, perhaps they were friends after all. 

“I must let you rest now, before your wives ban me from your bedside,” Marco started to rise. 

“Polo... Marco... come back tomorrow and tell me more of your riddles. Perhaps you will teach me some of your Latin words.” 

Marco bowed as low as his arm would allow, and quickly turned to leave before the Prince could see the joy on his face at his words. As Marco slowly walked across the field to his own small  _ger_ , he felt a peace and a hope that had eluded him until now. 

    

_Brother. Friend._

    
    

 

**Author's Note:**

> "Vulgar Latin" is probably the language that Marco spoke during the time of the show. It simply means everyday or common Latin.


End file.
